


ten minutes ago

by pumpkinpickles



Category: Cinderella Phenomenon (Visual Novel)
Genre: Cinderella AU, Cinderella Elements, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Princes & Princesses, Spoilers, VAGUE SPOILERS FOR FRITZ'S ROUTE UUHHHH yeah, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinpickles/pseuds/pumpkinpickles
Summary: Prince Fritzgerald Aiden Leverton is expected to find a bride by his twenty third birthday. He holds a royal masquerade ball instead, hoping to run away in the midst of the festivities.Lucette is just another ordinary commoner who can embroider, write and play the harpsichord. One night, she goes to a masquerade ball with her sister, hoping for just a night of dancing.Instead, they both find each other, and much more to hope for.(basically: a meta of an actual Cinderella AU)
Relationships: Lucette Riella Britton/Fritzgerald Aiden Leverton, Waltz Cresswell/Karma
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	ten minutes ago

**Author's Note:**

> yall ever get so insanely stressed over assignments and online uni you stay up for two whole nights on two separate weeks to just do whatever? yeah this was the product of that :")) dont @ me for any historical inaccuracies or tense mistakes pls i am head empty and its like....2am probably. i just wanna write cute wholesome Fritz/Lucette Cinderella AU that ive been dreaming of for months now ;_;;; all my knowledge comes from vague wikipedia-ing and Cinderella (2015) live action remake (which is boring but beautiful) and that's that on that !
> 
> there are some notes i have for this AU (mainly concerning vague plotlines that i didn't want to explore in this meta because i wanted to focus on Fritz and Lucette), that can be found here madokasoratsugu(.)tumblr(.)com/post/618257148239069184
> 
> the title is from Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella Broadway (2013), which is an incredibly lovely song. please enjoy both it and the fic ! :"))

* * *

_act one:_ Fritzgerald Aiden Leverton is the son and only heir to King Alcaster Leverton. he can climb trees as well as he can fight with a sword, and knows the entire history and theology of Angielle by heart. he is well-loved, handsome and respected, but needless to say, it is still not enough. he knows he never will be enough, in his father’s eyes, but he tries.

then his father demands him to take a bride. Fritz retaliates by riding alone cross country to Brugantia, where his friend Prince Klaude welcomes him with screeching laughter and a slap on the back.

“you _could_ run away.” Karma says, popping another grape in his mouth, lounging on his chaise. very unprincelike. but Fritz “ran away from home at the age of twenty three because he doesn’t know how to talk to girls outside of formal occasions” Leverton isn't in the place to say anything. “ _or...”_

Fritz sits upright. “or?”

Karma grins, and it is so bright Fritz suddenly regrets coming to him for help. “or you could hold a ball.”

and so Fritz does. 

for many reasons, mainly:

one - it buys time for him if he does want to run away. he needs time to prepare supplies and a cover story, and generally to come to terms with the fact that his father really never saw him as anything but a means to continue succession to the throne.

(Fritz rubs his eyes furiously, and pretends his sleeve doesn’t come away wet)

two - it will be his twenty third birthday soon, and he needs to hold a celebration anyway. might as well have it on his own terms, this year.

and three - despite everything, being a prince, a royal, a coveted means to riches and fame; Fritz is still a romantic at heart, and wants, so, so badly, to believe in true love. and weren’t fateful encounters what storybooks always spoke of the most ? 

so it’s decided - for Fritzgerald Aiden Leverton’s twenty-third birthday, a weeklong masquerade ball will be held, welcome to all and barred to none. 

(Fritz only hopes this is Karma’s way of helping, and not him just wanting an excuse to party in Angielle. )

.

 _act two:_ Lucette is the step-daughter of a baker, who can embroider, write fluently and play the harpsichord. needless to say, she was not always the step-daughter of a baker. she doesn't like the hot ovens or the endless kneading of dough, but she’s good at math, so she cashiers instead.

it doesn't help that the townsfolk still don't like her. Lucette doesn't care, even if it does sting. she just takes their gold, returns silvers, and keeps mum.

(but in the dead of the night, when there isn't the rush of counting change and being forced to be jovial pressing on her mind, Lucette can't help but think of the way they stare at her, cold and annoyed, and digs deeper into her pillow, wishing they'd ignored her like the past instead.)

“i’m sure it's only because they don't know anything about you!” Emelaigne insists. she immediately freezes. jokes about your step-sister’s past curse is not recommended for improving sisterly-bonds.

Lucette simply looks into the distance, ignoring Emelaigne’s worried eyes. she takes another bite of her sandwich, more concerned with how she’ll deal with the afternoon rush than the cold stares she’s long gotten used to. 

besides, watching people grumble and grouch over prices or lack of bread is the only way Lucette gets her entertainment nowadays. the life of a baker’s daughter is not very exciting. 

“there’s a ball happening!” Emelaigne greets her with the next morning. 

Lucette takes that back. apparently being a baker’s daughter comes with the hidden privileges of being invited to royal balls. the doubtful thought translates in her expression, and Emelaigne is quick to press a colourful flyer into her hand.

ah. the prince’s annual birthday ball. of course. but this year, with the extra perk of all being invited. Lucette’s brow raises unconsciously, until she remembers the prince is twenty-three and still without a princess. panicking, she sees. the poor man.

“let’s go, Lucette! oh please, please let’s go! i can see Rod, and we can dance! i know how much you love to!” Emelaigne gushes, clasping her hands in front of her bosom. her turquoise eyes are gleaming, with hope and excitement. 

it isn't everyday that commoners get a free pass into the palace - so it goes to say that it isn't everyday that family of the court get to visit their kin so freely either. Lucette is sure that is Emelaigne’s real concern, despite Rod’s luck to have gotten a musical apprenticeship with the palace bard, even if it means not being able to see his family for months at a time. 

but she cannot deny the leap her heart had done at the idea of dancing again. in a proper ball, no less! with musicians and revelry befitting the dances she’s practiced till her shoes were worn down to their soles.

Emelaigne senses her hesitation and pounces on it like a hawk. “mother bought us those lovely dancing shoes a while ago, too! it would be a waste not to use them, Lucette. oh, please say you’ll go!”

and so Lucette does.

(even as she dreams of a fire and burning flesh and chokes on imaginary smoke that very same night, Lucette doesn’t rescind her agreement.)

.

 _act three:_ Emelaigne disappears from sight the moment they arrive at the palace. unusual, but not unexpected. the palace is massive, with towers and keeps for every occasion and season. yet the crowd still overwhelms it with fine fur, silk and glitter, filling every nook and cranny of the marble architecture. 

Lucette is worried, but not so much when she recognises the wing they got separated in. it is one she has visited before in a previous visit, and one meant for the arts. although still large, it is comparatively smaller than other wings. Emelaigne will find Rod here, or at least one of his compatriots, if he is performing in one of the main ballrooms.

still, she hails a butler and informs him of her sister’s disappearance, making note to stress Emelaigne’s relation to Rod. he is quick to comply with her request, and it is only when she sees him speak to a guard that Lucette slips away for some dancing, as she was promised.

the night is in full swing. all ballrooms are full of song and dance, wild with joy and all social restraints gone with the anonymity of masks. Lucette joins the ranks easily, earning numerous dances despite her out of season dress and lack of jewels. 

(she could easily have donned them, but the ones she owns are recognisable and too beautiful for someone with hands as chapped as hers to own. Lucette is not fond of the idea of being called a thief over her inheritance.)

countless dances later, Lucette slips back into the night, grateful for the cool Autumn breeze. she weaves through crowds and candelabras, heading further into the palace where she is certain there will be a pocket of empty space too dark or foreign for anyone to dare to step.

eventually she finds one in the form of the sprawling back garden, abandoned for favour of the warmer ballrooms and flowing wine. still flushed and overheated from the dances, Lucette welcomes the cold, and treads into the garden.

it is beautiful, immaculately kept and trimmed. glowing stones are fastened amidst the greenery to aid visitors, and the winter roses are in full bloom, early for the season, next to camellia trees and stone benches. the further Lucette walks, the more flowers grow, splendid even at night. the reds blend softly into the light stones and the darkness of the night, and Lucette cannot help the relieved sigh that she has found a scenery as beautiful as this to admire as she takes her well earned break.

“oh.”

Lucette turns immediately at the sudden gasp behind her. 

a man stands there, dressed regally in whites and blacks, the only spot of colour the gold trims of his epaulettes. his half-mask is expertly carved in the shape of a wolf, coloured black to match his attire, with dry strokes of silver to bring out the detail in the craftsmanship. it contrasts beautifully against his snowy hair (even with its odd shock of black), his bright golden eyes that stare at her wide in shock.

a wolf. the audacity, to laud an old symbol of treason, and a current symbol of desire and prosperity - as well as the prince’s own. an odd choice for the kindly prince, but who was anyone to judge, except gossip?

but Lucette does not care for idle gossip. as far as she is concerned, the wolf’s new mark as one of prosperity and royalty far outweighed any past connotations to it. 

“i did not think anyone would be here. i apologise.” the man says, bowing slightly. his mannerisms give him away as a knight entirely. Lucette bites back a smile, securities loosened from the night of dancing and drinking. of course they would pick the wolf, then. loyalty to the throne.

“it is quite alright.” Lucette responds. “i did not think anyone would be here either.”

her placid tone seems to surprise him. but he is quick to smile, friendly. “then may i have the honour of sharing the space with you, my lady?” 

Lucette’s insides twist at the familiar title, the joy in her withering instantly at the customary politeness. it is not his fault, but his face falls immediately at her stiff expression. “or shall i take my leave?”

“no.” Lucette says, guilt filling her. he is being polite, and nothing more. it is his night to enjoy as much as it is hers.“i apologise. i was lost in thought. if you do not mind my company, you are free to stay.”

"i should be the one to say that, my lady.” he responds softly, eyes skewing to one side, a hand drifting to his mask. but Lucette only stands and waits. seeing that Lucette has no intention of leaving, the man blinks once, twice, and smiles a little wider, cheeks prettily darkened even under the moonlight. 

he reaches a hand out towards an empty bench that he lays a handkerchief upon before she sits. _an oldschool knight,_ Lucette amends. hardly any nobles she knew would do that for a duchess nowadays, much less an unknown lady. it beckons a shyness that has her silent, tongue-tied.

“thank you for sharing the garden with me, my lady.” the knight says, breaking the silence. Lucette finds, to her surprise, that she is glad that he does. 

“i couldn’t have had it all to myself.” Lucette says, slight amusement leaking into her tone. the gardens were wide enough to build an entire estate. 

the knight laughs sudden, catching the tease hidden in her words. he rubs the back of his neck, smiling. “yes, but you could have told me to leave as well. there is no need for politeness tonight.”

“i do not have the authority.” Lucette says, suddenly serious, her mother’s teachings seeping through unbidden. “and by your logic, you are as welcome to these grounds as any other tonight.”

the knight looks at her, then tilts his head. his grin grows sharp, curious. making his visage handsomer still, in the slight canines that peek from his smile. “you are an odd one, my lady.”

Lucette only blinks at him, unsure how to respond. unsure of what he might mean. but seeing the way his eyes soften under the moon, the way he smiles unguarded at her, Lucette finds herself thinking - perhaps a praise? 

her cheeks run another tone warmer. she must have had too much to drink. a praise? really, Lucette? she was taught better than this. of course it couldn’t be one, phrased so oddly as it is.

“and so are you.” Lucette replies evenly. “most would offer their name before insulting a lady.”

the man blinks. his smile drops a little, before it breaks into a smirk. “i wasn’t insulting you, my lady. but how daring, to ask for a name in a masquerade.”

Lucette blushes redder, curses her reflexive tongue of retorts that has never learnt to bend for the situation. but the man doesn’t seem perturbed by the breach of etiquette or even bothered by Lucette’s harsh tongue, only smiling with - dare she say - fondness. 

“but if you must have a name, you may call me Varg.” he smiles. there is a slight hesitancy before the name. Lucette takes note of the ancient Angiellian language, and raises a brow. _wolf._ how fitting, yet obvious.

“you may call me Lilja.” Lucette returns in kind. Varg’s brows immediately shoot up, surprise painted all over his features.

“Lilja.” he repeats slowly. rolling the ‘l’s carefully, knocking into the harder ‘ja’ with ease. the language is not uncommon to him, clear in the wonder in his voice as he speaks it with a native’s tongue. “’lily’. how fitting.”

Lucette blinks. funny he should say that, just as she thought so for him. “I could say the same, Sir Varg.”

Varg’s head shoots up, locking eyes with her. as if he hadn’t heard the name clearly, or perhaps a little too much. “yes.” he says, after an extended silence. his reply sounds breathless, an almost laugh. in a way that Lucette recognises her voice to have when she replied, emotions barely lidded at his careful enunciation of her childhood name. “certainly so.”

as if remembering himself, Varg coughs into a fist, blinking quite rapidly. Lucette politely allows him a moment. when it passes, Varg straightens upon the stone seat.

“Lady Lilja.” Varg says again, this time with his hands in fists upon his lap. he bows slightly, a playful grin playing on his lips as he lifts his head. “a pleasure to be of your acquaintance.” 

taken aback by the cheekiness of the polite gesture after all the tomfoolery, Lucette is torn between a reflexive snapping comment and a surprising laugh. there is something about the night, the masks and Varg himself that begs it from her; his honesty and beguiling smile stirring a sensation within her of wanting to be known behind the safety of her mask.

“Sir Varg.” Lucette mirrors the half bow with her hands folded on her lap instead, deciding on formality in the end. but the edges of her practiced weapon are blunted by his smile, and Lucette finds herself surprised again at how much she doesn't mind. “it is my pleasure to be of your acquaintance as well.”

and when his smile cracks wider at her reply, Lucette finds herself wanting to smile back but unable to, caught by the sudden butterflies in her stomach.

(unbeknownst to her, the knight opposite her finds himself in the exact same dilemma.)

.

 _act four:_ Fritz had not expected much from the ball. Karma’s insistence on the masquerade had only increased the influx of visitors, and Fritz spent more time avoiding ambassadors and courtiers who would _definitely_ recognise him than doing any bride searching. it is more of a hectic chase with him as the prize than any sort of relaxing celebration.

it is by luck alone that he manages to squeeze in a dance or two, and even then it is with Karma and Karma’s betrothed, in an attempt to run away from said dignitaries and the women who come to him in droves, despite his disguise.

a very bad disguise, might he add. Fritz doesn’t know what Karma was thinking when he gave him the wolf mask. his past stint with a curse might not have been publicised, but rumours have flown.

“hide a tree among a forest.” Karma had winked. “i don’t think that’s the right expression in this case.” Waltz had said, earning him a pillow to the face. “you get what i mean!” 

Fritz does. but still. he finds his hands wandering unconsciously to it, tracing over the etchings of fur and design. the sparks of enchanted magic resonate with his fingertips, tingling with familiarity. Waltz had designed the spell as a last minute fail-safe when Fritz had nearly gotten recognised for the fifth time in an hour. 

“it won’t be useful on cursed, fairies and witches.” Waltz said. “but i'm sure you already know that. so be careful.” 

Fritz had smiled silently, and only thanked him for the reminder.

but despite it all, he likes it. the fit over his face is familiar, even if he still expects to feel the curve of a raven’s beak when he traces the nosepiece at times. 

besides, it would scare off any potential brides. it isn’t the luckiest animal to don, after all. a win win, as Fritz sees it.

but then there is a lady who is neither scared nor intrigued by it. who only takes it in stride, and treats him in the wolf mask with level and respect as she might any other man. who looks him in the eye, says “Varg” with an accuracy he has not heard since his mother passed.

and Fritz finds himself curious instead. 

Lady Lilja is one of noble background, certainly, with the way she carries herself and speaks, the way she covers her mouth in disapproval or lifts a delicate brow in interest. yet her carefully folded hands are chapped and rough, and her voice rings with a confidence Fritz does not know court ladies to possess.

he also has not seen her before. he thinks that is important to note, when his presence has been made mandatory at every ball in the recent seasons. the clues only add up to an impossible puzzle, even distinctive as she is with her glossy auburn hair and caramel gaze. but Fritz lets go of the mystery for the very motif of a masquerade ball. if any lady wanted to be known, she would make herself so eventually.

the night passes quickly and easily with their conversations that slip occasionally into informal banter, egged on by his teases and her witty nature, sharp and clear as ice.

Fritz is not so usually coerced into such behaviour, but with the mask and her sharp tongue, it beguiles him, to speak his mind and laugh aloud, easy as taking a breath. he does not remember the last time he was this comfortable in anyone else’s company.

(it makes him wonder, for an instant, when she covers her mouth at another one of his reckless teases, if it is a smile that she hides instead. if she might enjoy his company as much as he does hers, and the thought makes his heart race, his cheeks flush)

then the clock strikes twelve.

Lady Lilja swivels her head in shock, looking at the tall clocktower with parted lips. the first unhidden expression, and Fritz is not polite enough to remind her of social niceties, not when he’s distracted by the faint gloss of red over her lips.

“i must go.” Lady Lilja says, a frown tugging on her lips. “i did not realise it was so late.”

“of course.” Fritz says immediately, guilt at his selfish monopolisation of her time suddenly overwhelming him. “you must excuse me. i did not mean to take up so much of your time.”

Lilja shakes her head, standing. “there is no need for an apology, when i have taken much of yours too.” then she looks askance for a moment, as if debating, her cheeks rosy like the winter blooms. 

“i enjoyed my time with you.” she says, looking back at him only for the moment it takes to speak. then she has turned, hurried away, skirts flowing behind her.

and Fritz, spellbound by the way her cheeks had reddened like her lips and her honey eyes had so sweetly darted away in shyness as she spoke, only stands and watches until her blue skirts turn a corner and disappear.

(it is only later, when he is in his room alone and before a mirror that he realises she wore a swan upon her face, feathered in white and black.)

.

 _act five:_ Lucette is in the bakery, sitting upon a high stool as she works the register today. Emelaigne is in the same state, only in the kitchen. it is hard not to wince whenever she shifts. so much dancing in a night had not been clever, but -.

“wasn’t it fun?” Emelaigne had sighed against Lucette as one of the complimentary carriages sent them home. she has an arm wound around Lucette’s, her head on her shoulder. Lucette hums, the affirmative sound making Emelaigne giggle in delight. 

“it’s too bad we didn’t get to see the prince!” Emelaigne hums. Lucette makes no reply, still thinking of silver-black wolves and the odd lock of black in her knight’s hair.

“do you want to come again tomorrow? mother will be coming too!” for once, Lucette’s attention does not zero in on having to spend time with her step-mother whom she is still learning to accept. instead, her thoughts remain on a certain knight.

realising, Lucette stamps down the thoughts with a solid bite to the inside of her cheek. the blossoming pain does nothing to stop the warming of her cheeks.

“Lucette?” Emelaigne asks. and Lucette, despite common sense, despite her mother’s teachings, despite knowing fairytales are cautionary tales, says -

“if you do not mind me coming along.”

scene change: 

“what the hell.” Karma says.

“wow.” Waltz underlines. 

Fritz is lying facedown amongst his nest of pillows. Karma slaps his back with one, demanding his attention.

“i thought you were going to _run away,_ you scoundrel!” he grins.

“i am, if you keep this up.” Fritz counters, muffled though it is by the cushions. Karma laughs, but it is brilliant and joyful and rings like it had when Waltz proposed.

“oh Fritz. Fritz, Fritz, _Fritz_.” Karma singsongs, lying across his back. “are you going to see her again tonight?”

Fritz freezes. lifts his head from his feathery recluse, horror drawn across his face. “i don’t know. i didn’t - i wasn’t - i wasn’t _thinking_. i didn’t make a promise.”

Karma shrieks mirthfully again at Fritz’s expense. before he can say anything, Waltz pipes up. “don’t worry. i'm sure she’ll go to the gardens again, if she wants to see you.”

“if?” Fritz echoes, slight dread in his voice. Karma grins fondly, despite the other prince not being able to see it.

“if.” Karma confirms. “nothing is certain in love, my boy.”

“some things are.” Waltz says, rolling his eyes at his fiance’s dramatics. “have faith, Fritz. if she is as you described - it’d be hard to imagine that she wouldn’t come again.”

“she said she enjoyed her time with you when no one does!” Karma affirms.

this time, Karma screams when Fritz bodily tackles him into the bed, armed with a buckwheat bolster. 

.

_act six:_

“you’re here.” the words rush out of Varg, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.

“i am.” Lucette replies, oddly shy under his disbelieving stare. “did you not say that i shared this garden with you? then it wouldn’t do to leave you by your lonesome.”

Varg grins, smile catching in the moonlight, and Lucette finds her next breath stuttering. walking forward, she flushes deeper crimson when she spots a handkerchief already laid beside Varg and waiting. Varg’s face turns a shade darker when he follows her line of sight, and pretends not to notice when she deliberately sits upon it.

“thank you.” Lucette says anyway, and delights in the way Varg’s face turns darker still.

“of course.” Varg replies, half cough, half speech. “you look lovely tonight as well.”

Lucette looks down at her dress, an elegant deep blue hue. it is her favourite. it is also what she wore yesterday night.

“thank you.” Lucette says again, and tries not to think about how the praise is not courtesy just by the way Varg had lit up upon seeing her, just by the way he stares at her a moment too long after her thanks.

Varg is also wearing the same attire. not uncommon for a seven day long masquerade. often people only changed on the final day, if at all. commoners did not have that many clothes to spare, after all.

it is something that Lucette had agonised over today. she had numerous other dresses from her time with mother, but if she changed - would Varg suspect? would he ask? 

and so she had not. 

and so she would not, for the next few days.

no matter, when all they did was sit and talk. Varg had asked the first couple of nights if Lucette rather join the revelry, and in a half-truth Lucette had shook her head, blaming her aching feet instead of her thundering heart that only quickened when Varg relaxed his shoulders at her affirmed stay.

Varg himself had laughed it off when she returned the question. “i'm not much of a dancer.” Varg said. “unless we’re dancing with swords.”

Lucette had lifted a brow. “you would fight a lady?”

Varg had grinned, looking as stupidly fetching as he always does when his canines show, when his eyes are crinkled in gentle fondness that Lucette wonders if it might be directed at her, for her. 

“some of the best fighters i know _are_ ladies, my lady. my superior herself could cut me down if given half the chance.” 

“my, she certainly sounds like a lady who knows her way into my heart.”

“Lady Lilja, are you saying you want to see me decapitated and limbless?”

“i am saying i would like to meet the lady who could silence someone as arrogant as you, Sir Varg.”

“my lady, you could silence me too, if you so wished.”

and Lucette had blushed immediately, at the blatant flirt, while Varg pressed a fist to his lips, seemingly embarrassed now that she’d caught on. neither had been able to look the other in the eye for the rest of that night, but neither had any apologies been given, any statements rescinded.

that was how these conversations existed, in a permanently unmoving axis, stuck by their own shyness and missed glances. 

yet nothing was ever taken back, never made to be second guessed or doubted. they exchanged teases, borderline flirts; then flirts, borderline teases. a fun little game that was serious only when their gazes chance a meet, when they held each other’s eyes a little too long(ingly). 

they never say anything of it, a spell woven by their knowing silence beneath the moon. 

they only meet each other night after night, hidden beneath the camellia trees and amongst the winter roses, and share another laugh, another word, another almost touch with their hands that rest in the space between them, a pinky’s length away from each other.

(they only meet, then part, then wonder, and wonder, and wonder, falling asleep with the other on their mind, and falling into the other’s arms in their dreams.)

.

 _act seven:_ Lucette knows she should tell Varg the truth. 

her past is not one she is ashamed of, but it is one to be frightened of. and it scares her, when she realised that Varg’s opinion of her mattered. that he might turn on her for who she is the daughter to, that he might look at her one day like the rest of the townsfolk do, even when they’ve forgotten, even when they’ve remembered.

(cold and annoyed.)

it isn’t that she hasn’t tried. but when Varg look at her, enchanted, with a tilting smile on his face, all the words die in Lucette’s mouth, fear paralyzing her, fear making her choose another selfish moment more with this man, rather than the truth.

it isn’t that she doesn’t want to. but the truth comes hand in hand with disgrace. and Lucette cannot damn Varg to a life of shame, when he is accomplished and bright and lovely like the sun.

sometimes, Lucette regrets returning. she should have ended the lie on a beautiful note, something magical on a masquerade night. but when Varg laughs, deep-bellied and crashing like waves, Lucette thinks, _impossible;_ thinks, how could she ever deny herself this?

it will be fine for now, Lucette thinks. she will disappear like seafoam on the seventh night, and it will be fine. 

another masquerade mystery to never be solved, a moment’s fancy to be spoken of in the future. 

just another moment in his life. just another passing figure.

somehow, Lucette’s heart aches at the thought, eyes burning.

when Varg notices, brows furrowing in concern and asking what’s wrong, Lucette shakes her head, and mumbles something along the lines of him boring her to tears. 

and when he laughs, melodic, Lucette finds herself able to withstand the thought a little better, able to swallow down the dry words in lieu for another moment more with Varg.

.

 _act eight:_ Fritz knows he should tell Lilja the truth.

his heritage is not one that should be hidden. it is not one that he should have hidden at all, when it is less a secret and more a topic not yet broached. 

eventually, their identities will come to light. it will be better if Lilja hears it from his mouth, than anyone else. it will be easier to accept. it will be -

impossible to. how could anyone, any lady readily love a prince? it is a dilemma that all royals must face - would one be marrying you for you or for your crown? no one wanted to weigh their heart before a promise was made, but if Fritz is to accept Lilja as one to marry a royal, Lilja must. Lilja must make her promise before Fritz will - to love, to cherish, to trust.

it is a heavy promise not many take with both hands. most opt to clutch onto gold with one, and that of their beloved in the other.

(and their beloved is not necessarily the royal they have pledged their life to.)

the promise is too heavy. too, too heavy and so Fritz, selfishly -

does not want to hear her reject it.

so in his own cowardice he remains silent.

and it isn’t just the promise alone Fritz fears. it is the rejection of he himself - the wolf prince, the cursed prince, the prince beloved yet shrouded in too much mystery for anyone to trust; not the citizens who still scurry when they see him, not the diplomats who don’t look him in the eye. 

not even his own father.

yet Fritz wants, still, so badly, to tell Lilja. of his lineage, of his identity - because as much as he shouldn’t, he has already made the promise; unspoken yet true in the way he smiles and laughs for her and her alone. 

he is already hers alone, even if she will not be his - even if she chooses gold and another.

but Fritz cannot risk that. he cannot risk his kingdom and an usurp for fleeting emotions, for a lady he knows in nights alone. 

but when the corners of Lilja’s eyes wrinkle in a heldback smile, when she laughs with her shining eyes alone, when she speaks, quick in wit and response, the confession flies to the tip of Fritz’s tongue, the longing to bare himself so intense he might choke. 

it will be fine for now, Fritz tells himself. she is just another in a long line of choices. she is just -

no. he cannot stand it, the mere thought that she is one among so many. that she is just another _choice_ , when Lilja is more than that, a vibrant, brilliant spark that he is drawn to like a helpless moth. 

on the seventh, Fritz promises himself. on the seventh night he will tell her, and his promise will be hers to decide what to do with.

as will his heart.

.

 _act nine:_

“have you ever kept a secret, Sir Varg?”

Varg blinks owlishly at Lucette. her tongue is like lead, words like sandpaper. she expects something evasive, something teasing as he is prone to when her questions beget honesty, but he only smiles, a little crumpled at the edges, a little more raw than she knows.

“i have. a dreadful one, even.”

Lucette longs to laugh. certainly not as dreadful as hers. “how do you do it?” she asks, stalling for time.

“i don’t know.” the words tumble out of Varg, an almost confessional. “i think it is my cowardice, my silly pride. it is terrible, awful, and every moment of my life i spend with them i wish to speak, but my dreadful tongue does not let me. most troublesome.”

Varg heaves as he finishes, immediately looking away. as if in shame. as if in secrecy. a hand pressed over his mouth in regret, in hesitance. 

a rare display of honesty, amidst their masks. 

"it is fearful.” Lucette says, soft. “very much so”

it is not an easy thing to be known, the silence that follows says. it is not an easy thing to allow another your heart, and trust that they will not let it go.

“it is the last night.” Varg says, quiet. “do you not want to dance?”

Lucette looks at him, at his pensive figure and hears the stream of an orchestra from a distant ballroom, bright and swelling with the ending of a weeklong celebration; then catches the soft notes of a solo violinist somewhere closer, practicing. 

Lucette stands. “yes.” 

Varg’s expression falls immediately, but he is quick to mask it with a bow and a smile. “then i shall -.”

Lucette holds out a hand. “may i have this dance?”

Varg stares at her hand as if it is a foreign object, then breaks into beautiful laughter that squeezes Lucette’s heart till it cracks. “my dear lady.” Varg says between chuckles, oh so terribly fond. “that should be my line.”

still, he takes her hand, holding it as he wraps his other around her waist. instinctively, like second nature, like she is meant to, Lucette lays her hand on his shoulder, and falls in step with him.

the dance is a simple four step waltz, a basic back and forth step and turn even a child may know. then the violin picks up a different chord, and Lucette follows suit, moving along the winter roses that bloom around the edges of their garden. their steps grow larger, smaller, a unique mix of waltzes she has learnt and practiced alone wishing, wishing someone was there to hold her instead - and only wonders when, when did that ‘someone’ turn into ‘Varg’.

Varg follows perfectly, despite his flippant nature towards the arts, an immaculate form that does not stutter despite her changing steps, leading as much as he does follow.

eventually they fall into a complex pattern of their own, slow yet charged. their gazes have not broken once in the dance, drawn to each other helplessly. it is easy to get lost in his eyes, to trace his mask down his jaw to his brilliant smile, that never falls around her. 

the violin ascends, triumphant. backlit by the moon, Varg’s smile is gentle, captivating, his hands steady and tight around her figure, as if she is porcelain, as if she is precious, as if he -

does not want to let go.

Lucette feels it, the cracking of her taut expression, the splintering of her heart, the parting of her lips mirroring Varg’s, a mix of undeniable love and fear in his eyes -

a loud clanging ring resounds through the territory.

the clock strikes twelve.

Varg tears his eyes away first, looking horrified at the clock, at the signal of the end of the ball -

but Lucette hears the shattering to their shared dream instead.

Lucette’s hands crumple into his sleeves, and she is the one to push him away first, resolute. 

when Varg turns back, Lucette is already running, already pressing a hand to her mouth, willing herself not to speak, not to turn but -

“Lady Lilja, wait!” Varg is fast, capturing her by the wrist, and Lucette turns on blind impulse, sees his figure blurred and tastes salt.

Varg lets go.

Lucette runs.

(it was out of pure shock, her crumpled face so ashen and fearful, so aching out of love, that he let go. he couldn’t have done anything else, not when his words will surely only bring more pain, more conflict, more doubt, more -

tears.)

Lucette runs until she finds Emelaigne a ways from the carriages. Emelaigne squeaks as she catches an out of breath Lucette by the arms, steadying her. 

“Lucette! your shoe!” looking down, Lucette sees herself missing one glass slipper, one half of her good luck charm from her broken curse gone. her curse. _cinderella._

Lucette gasps, startled, humiliated, shocked, like coming out of a dream. suddenly, she is heralded into Emelaigne’s arms, and all that fills her is the scent of powder. 

“its okay.”

Emelaigne presses into Lucette, her arms reassuring and strong like her voice, suddenly steady with a calmness Lucette did not know someone with her willowy nature could possess. Emelaigne’s hands are gentle as they stroke the back of her head, and it is only when Emelaigne’s words crack with her repetition of the phrase that Lucette realises her eyes have begun bubbling over with quiet tears, drenching Emelaigne’s beautiful gown.

“it’s okay.”

and somewhere far away in the back gardens of the royal castle, the only place barred to the public since the second night, the prince sits alone; cradling a glass shoe, pretending his sleeve doesn’t come away wet when he rubs his eyes.

(”she was crying.” he will confess, later, when Karma and Waltz find him, long after the festivities have ended. and they will sit next to him, and pretend too, that his cheeks are not wet)

.

 _act ten:_ Fritz agonises over his decision for days. for once, no one pokes and prods him into an answer, too wary of their suddenly silent prince to say anything.

a week after the ball, notices are put out, royal announcements made all over the country: the prince is looking for a bride - a lady who will fit the glass slipper she left behind on the night of his birthday.

a week after the notice is first put out, rumours trickle out that apparently, becoming the bride is as easy as fitting a shoe. frustrating, painful and often disappointing. the prince asks all ladies who fit the shoe perfectly random questions and trivia, or strikes conversations that they fumble to follow. 

then he shakes his head, smiles, says thank you. and not a word more, until the next lady who fits the shoe appears.

there is no method to be seen in his madness. at least - not to anyone but a certain baker’s step-daughter, who overhears one of the questions from a gossiping patron and remembers winter roses, camellia trees, and endless chatter shared beneath the moon.

(”isn’t the moon beautiful tonight?” “it is obscured behind the clouds, Sir Varg.” “ah, a dreadful lack of imagination our Lady Lilja has.”)

on hindsight, Lucette had known. the motif of a wolf, the monochrome shades the prince is known to favour paired only with the kingdom’s traditional gold, the elegant way a knight would not have known to speak or act. 

at first glance, Lucette had known. snow white hair disturbed only by a lock of black that frames his left cheekbone. there is only one man in the palace with such a characteristic, with such a mark of a broken curse.

it is only the masquerade that had kept their facade up.

but now -. Lucette clenches her hands, and reads the notice again. 

it is only her that keeps it. and so -. Lucette swallows, the choice laid in front of her frightening and terrible and so, so inviting.

it is only her that can end it.

.

_act eleven:_

“i told you to find a bride, not act a fool.” King Alcaster says disapprovingly. Fritz casts a tired glance at his father, worn from a day of fruitless conversations.

“i am.” Fritz replies. King Alcaster opens his mouth, grits it shut. he does not ask what question the retort is answering. the prince does not deign him an answer.

“what bride i choose is not your place to say.” Fritz says suddenly. the act of defiance is like a cracking bolt of lightning, struck twice in the same place. King Alcaster looks at him, apathetic. 

his stony expression says it all, but he puts it into words like one might for a petulant child. “of course it is.”

Fritz smiles, cutting and knowing. “did the courtiers say the same when you married mother?”

King Alcaster’s jaw snaps shut, fury igniting in his eyes, the very same Fritz inherited, yet in contrast, icy cold. “what bride i choose is not your place to say.” Fritz repeats slowly, like one might to a petulant child. “mother would say the same. and you -.” Fritz pauses, glare turning piercing, sharp. “you, of all people, should understand.”

King Alcaster’s smile turns withered, dry. “then do not blame me when she falls to the same ailments your mother did when she was brought into court.”

and he leaves. Fritz stares at his father’s back for a moment longer, before he too, turns.

“he has a point.” Karma says, with a one shoulder shrug. it is the next night, and Karma is in his room as Fritz sheds off the day’s attire. a pity he could not shed off the tire of another wasted day as well.

“i know.” Fritz says simply. he is not a fool or an idiot like his father thinks him to be. he would not have issued such an invitation to Lilja if he was.

the court is not an easy place. but Lilja - no, _Lucette._ she could navigate it with ease, if she so chose to. if she so chose him.

on hindsight, Fritz had known. her mannerisms and speech befitting a noble, yet hands befitting a commoner. her layered dress, her stunning pearl earrings, simple as they are.

the infamy of the disgraced house of Tenebrarum is widespread; the story of the witch-Duchess who burnt alive in her own home, set ablaze by the cursed who sought revenge on the creator of their torment. even moreso, the tragic comedy of her daughter who inherited and lost everything overnight. the one and only missing Lady Lucette Tenebrarum, sole daughter to Duchess Hildyr Tenebrarum, the sole heir to the Tenebrarum name. a witch. a cursed one, some rumours might even say. a successor to unimaginable wealth and power, only spoken of in hushed whispers in the dead of the night.

Fritz had not cared for the rumours. had only thought how lonely it must be, to be cursed and your mother dead, and hated by what seemed to be the world, for such a young mind. had only thought, _if you are a sinner, then i am a tyrant._

at first glance, Fritz had known. her auburn hair had been beautiful under the moonlight, her golden eyes so kind and familiar to an old advisor his father once had, to an advisor who used to work for the Tenebrarum manor. there is only one woman in this country with hair as vivid, with eyes as soulful.

the facade that kept them both protected is gone, cracked by Fritz’s own hands and words. 

“i’m waiting.” Fritz says softly, another day when Karma asks what the point of entertaining so many clearly falsified accounts is. he sits up straighter, his uniform and medals and gold upon him weighing heavier than usual. “it is her decision to make. not mine.” 

he will not force upon Lucette the responsibilities and weight of a shared crown, but he will not allow his country to fall either, will not allow his kingdom to pay the price of his heart. Lucette must choose him and the crown, or not at all. the choice is a heavy one to make. 

Fritz’s hands tighten on his lap, laced together in silent prayer. he has already made his choice, his promise, all those nights ago. he would not force her to do the same. the shame is his own to bear if she chooses another, if she chooses freedom.

Fritz closes his eyes, opens them, and waits.

(hopes.)

.

 _act twelve:_ it has been half a month since the ball. Emelaigne has not said anything about the missing glass slipper. Lucette barely acknowledges that a ball happened at all.

“you deserve happiness too, Lucette. no matter what anyone says.” Emelaigne says, sudden one night in their shared room. Lucette burrows deeper under her covers. “i...i just wanted you to know that.”

as usual, Lucette thinks everything Emelaigne says is too pretty to be true, too naive. but she still turns the glass slipper in her hands late in the night when her sister is long asleep, still wonders about her knight and how much of what was promised in those longing glances and gentle smiles was true. 

she wonders if he knows. what he would do if he does. what he might promise, then. to the woman whose mother was the cause of all his suffering, the cause of the suffering of the citizens of Angielle. 

she wonders if he would still smile at her, still laugh, still tease her and say her name with such unmistakable fondness, with such unmistakable love.

Lucette wonders, and her heart hurts with such an aching force it steals her breath, her thoughts, constricting her thoughts to only him and him alone.

she only wonders, and does not do a thing more.

“I wonder if the prince is still searching.” Ophelia says one day, absentminded. Lucette’s hands still over the coins for but a moment. the afternoon is slow today, and everyone’s thoughts are running rampant, Lucette’s especially so. the coincidence makes Lucette swallow.

“he hasn’t had any luck thus far.” Genaro confirms from the kitchens. connections made in the castle are not so easily lost, not when one is liked by many. “a sad affair, when he’s finally found the one.”

Ophelia smiles sadly. “many are blinded by gold and a title.” she says, shaking her head. “it would not be easy for any lady, even one as loved as this, to step forward.”

Lucette pauses again, and does not resume counting. 

“the courage needed is not one i think i have.” Ophelia laughs embarrassed, despite being the woman who made the most clever advisor the king had step down from his position in court to become a humble baker. “but hopefully, with enough love and a little belief in themselves and their partner, anyone can do anything.”

the conversation ends, and Lucette finishes counting the coins. stirred by a sudden urge, she stands and heads upstairs to her room, lifts the hidden panel where she keeps her glass slipper, and stares at it.

“go.”

Lucette whirls around to see Emelagine, breathless from running up the steps and covered in flour from the kitchens. beautiful, kind, perfect and pure Emelaigne, who is more of a princess than Lucette ever can be, who is kinder and fiercer and better than Lucette ever will be.

“go, Lucette.” Emelaigne falls to her knees beside Lucette on the ground, clasping both her hands in hers. “he loves you. don’t you feel the same?”

“im not you.” Lucette blurts out, an admonishment and a regret all at once. ignore the townsfolk she might, but it is harder to turn a deaf ear. Emelaigne frowns. 

“he does not love me.” Emelaigne says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “he loves _you.”_

Lucette swallows again, forcing the burning of her eyes to stop. “he does not. he would not, if he knew who i was.”

Emelaigne shakes her head, furious. “you don’t know that, Lucette. you don’t _know_ that! don’t you trust him, Lucette? don’t you believe in him?”

Lucette does not answer, cannot. 

“how many maidens have glass slippers, Lucette? how many have been cursed, have your hair and eyes? he is the prince, Lucette. he must know of your mother, and must have seen your portraits. i have. why wouldn’t _he?_ Lucette, _don’t you see?_ he does not care. he does _not.”_

Emelaigne squeezes Lucette’s hands tighter, her eyes wet but her lips pulled into the biggest smile Lucette has ever seen. “Lucette, he loves you. do you love him?” 

the crushing ache in Lucette’s chest answers it for her. but how much does she? enough to publicly announce her love across the country in a desperate search? enough to take someone with a sullied reputation in matrimony?

enough to return to court, to the people who threw her aside during a time she needed them most? enough to rule a kingdom?

she has asked herself this enough for the past weeks. it is time she faces her answer, and the one who waits for it.

Lucette squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. when she opens them, Emelaigne’s smile has only grown wider. 

“go to him, Lucette.” Emelaigne whispers. 

Lucette hugs her sister briefly, takes the glass slipper, and dons on her cloak.

Lucette runs.

(this time, she looks back, and promises to return.)

.

 _act thirteen:_ King Alcaster is not a fool by any means. he may be more suited for the frontlines than behind a strategist’s desk, but that does not mean he is not smart. 

“a lady with hair like ripe peaches. perhaps around twenty, twenty one.” Alcaster says. the boy nods hurriedly, wringing their hands. they do not know who they are speaking to. they can guess.

“a-anything else of note, sire?” they squeak. 

Alcaster’s eyes narrow as he looks into the distance. “her eyes. the most atrocious gold.”

they nod again. Alcaster drops a heavy, clinking sack into their waiting hands. suddenly, all the trepidation and lament of delivering oranges to the castle on this day disappears. 

“i will do as you say, sire.” the boy bows, and runs off.

Alcaster watches as the delivery boy scampers away, satisfaction blooming in his chest. 

he has already broken their engagement once, a long time ago when the children barely knew each other. no matter how unlikely it might be for the lady to be her, for their paths to cross again, Alcaster is not one to take chances. 

he did not take the throne by being complacent, after all.

(he took it by burning a witch, but that’s another story for another day.)

scene change: Lucette stands a distance away from the foot of the palace. endless women stream through the open gates, trekking up the endless stairs towards the palace’s main gate. 

she tugs on her hood nervously. they are dressed in finery and she is dressed in flour. she dusts her skirt consciously, tucking the slipper closer to her chest. 

Lucette sucks in a slow, ragged breath. he will know. he will know, and she must face that fact, no matter how horrible it is, or how much the thought alone feels like being raked over hot coals.

her nerves will not calm. if she waits until they do, she is certain she will never move from her spot. 

charged by nothing but blind hope, Lucette turns and heads towards a different gate. many have been opened for the ladies who hope to win the prince’s heart, some not as well known as others. perhaps she will have more courage somewhere less crowded.

weaving through ladies, weeping and excited both, Lucette’s chest only contracts tighter, unable to picture herself in either position, in any at all. she can only see him, his bright smile, then torn apart at the moment of their parting.

the horrible thought that she had left him with such an awful last memory makes her steps quicker. 

(he must know that it was not his fault. it was not him. it never could have been.)

moving faster, Lucette finds herself eventually stuck in the middle of an unmoving crowd of spectators. squeezing through unceremoniously, her hood slips back just enough.

when she exits, she takes no more than a few steps before her unsteady gait hits something, 

before she falls.

the glass slips from her clammy hands.

the shatter goes unnoticed amidst the ruckus of the crowd, of the crying ladies.

unnoticed, to everyone but the lady who had pinned all her hopes on it, to everyone but the boy who slips off into the crowd, rejoicing at their immense earnings for a task as simple as hindering a maid they have never met.

despite the growing crowd around her, bumping into her, Lucette remains on her hands and knees, hair askew beneath her hood, staring unblinkingly at the shattered remains of her hope before her.

her heart is stuck in her throat. she knows he would recognise her without it. 

but would the court? would anyone else? 

something deep and brewing stirs in Lucette, shackling her to the ground, unmoving. people walk by and around her, only throwing concerned glances and nothing else, too busy with the gossip and clamour of the prince’s uncanny behaviour to bother with another rejected lady.

Lucette does not expect any different. Lucette is almost glad, because the moment her heart plummeted at the realisation of her lost chance, her eyes had not stopped watering. at least her tears will not be seen, even if the unkindness stings, as it always does like in the bakery.

everyone walks by. everyone, but one.

“are you feeling alright, miss?”

Lucette does not answer. the bent knee she can see from her lowered gaze shuffles closer, careful to avoid the glass pieces.

“miss? can you hear me? are you conscious, miss?”

Lucette nods. to not would cause a bigger commotion, would attract attention she does not want. she stifles her sobs, and says, “i am fine.”, wincing at the poorly hidden hoarseness of her voice.

the man pauses for a moment, as if assessing her. his hands hover uncertainly before her. “i am fine.” Lucette repeats. “i just...had a fall.”

“did you cut yourself? does it hurt anywhere?” he asks gently. Lucette shakes her head, the throb of her knees and hands incomparable to her twisting heart.

the man sits back, somewhat satisfied with her answer. after a moment, he shifts, clearly looking at the glass pieces. then, without another word, begins gathering them.

Lucette’s head shoots up, alarmed. “what are you doing?” the bespectacled man does not stop, only undos his cravat to better collect the pieces. 

“they are important to you, are they not?” he says. looking up at her, he smiles kindly. “then we should treat them as such.”

Lucette’s burning eyes only grow worse. she tries to blink it back in some attempt to save her dignity, but finds it counterproductive. it only makes the tears more insistent, and it is through sheer will alone that Lucette does not cry. 

“they are useless, now.” Lucette says, monotone. but she reaches out to the biggest glass piece closest to her. she does not want to give up, but she also does not know what else she can do. she must reply with confidence, must declare her place with no room for doubt. but without her slipper as proof, her words are as flimsy as, ha, glass.

“not when they still hold importance to you.” 

the man patiently continues picking up the shards of glass, meticulous and careful. Lucette watches him, and he plucks the last piece from her hands, smiling softer when she meets his gaze. “things do not lose value because their form has changed. often, their value only increases.”

Lucette pauses. changed, yet different. a new idea plants itself in her mind, but it is dangerous. it is not foolproof, unlike her slipper. it is a risk that at best will create more unsavory rumours, at worst have her in the gallows for lese-majeste. but it is the only chance she will have.

sensing her hesitation, the man grins. “might i offer a piece of advice, miss?”

Lucette’s brows furrow. “have you already not?”

“another, then.”

with nothing else to lose, Lucette nods.

“love is always worth fighting for.”

Lucette’s eyes widen. the man ties the cravat neatly, her glass slipper entirely contained in the silk. he spots her stunned stare, and smiles sheepishly. 

“ah, my apologies. i have yet to introduce myself to you.” he holds out a hand that Lucette slowly takes. he hands her the bundle once he has helped her up, and inclines his waist in a slight bow.

“i am Chevalier du Mont, royal doctor to his majesty King Alcaster.”

Lucette blinks at the unassuming man, not knowing what to say. Chevalier seems to expect her silence, and looks knowingly at the bundle Lucette cradles carefully to her chest.

“i have a hunch, miss, that i know who you are.”

Lucette’s hands tighten over the bundle, reconsidering the worth of her slipper as a weapon.

Chevalier holds up a hand. his smile is assuring, and even with her untrusting nature Lucette feels a wall slip down. “i am only here by chance. i can pretend nothing has happened, if you wish to leave. but if you wish for something else, perhaps i may be of assistance.”

his eyes flicker to the growing crowd of ladies around the perimeters, easily surpassing the hundreds. there is not much daylight left. her courage, although now growing, is sure to wane if given just another day, another night. 

Lucette did say she had nothing else to lose.

“i wish to meet the prince.” Lucette says, confident and strong. she does not know with whom this man’s loyalties lie, but the way he speaks reminds her of a kindness she knows her knight to have. perhaps even a kindness her knight has learnt from.

Chevalier’s smile bursts into a beam. 

“it will be my utmost pleasure to grant that wish.”

.

_act fourteen:_

the palace is unusually quiet. the halls are empty but for the knights that line them. the curtains are pulled back, unfiltered and soft through the tall windows. it is so silent you could hear a pin drop.

Lucette follows the doctor down the corridor, the soft taps of their shoes echoing in the empty space. she tries not to look around, tries not to think about who she might see at the end of this walk, who it is that might greet her. if he might smile, might laugh, might even know her at all. 

Lucette’s breath catches, stills, a hand crumpling into her flour dusted skirt. if he might know her at all, now in rags and covered in dust. now truly like all her rumours - ugly, disgraced and unfitting. 

utterly out of place in the beautiful palace, beside the perfect prince, beloved and kindly with a disposition like a sun, like someone to only be loved, and nothing else.

but even ugly, disgraced and unfitting, Lucette stands resolute before the imposing doors to the audience room, armed with the knowledge that it is her he asked for, pleaded for across land and sea.

if she is not enough, then it will be him to tell her so. her faith will be his to decide what to do with.

as will her heart.

lowering her hood, her defenses, she allows Chevalier to open the door.

“your highness?”

Chevalier steps into the room. Lucette sees the chamber floor empty, awaiting its next guest.

“my greatest apologies for the interruption, but a lady requests an audience of utmost importance.”

“let her in.”

Lucette takes a quiet breath. enters the chamber, curtsies. 

“glory upon your highness.”

lifts her head, to meet the singular gaze of Prince Fritzgerald Aiden Leverton, sole heir of the kingdom of Angielle. imposing upon his velvet throne, bejewelled with the proper finery of furs and gold and medals, striking in his pressed uniform and neatly swept aside hair, hands laced upon his crossed legs.

his lips part in a soundless greeting, his eyes widening briefly before -

before they crease, in such an achingly familiar smile that Lucette’s own heart pulls apart at. gaze as wondrous as viewing a precious gem, elated as witnessing the first snowfall; lighting up in a way that Lucette cannot help but think it is not mere courtesy that he bends his head in a nod, that he smiles at her, regal yet held back and so painfully gentle.

“a pleasure to be of your acquaintance.” Prince Fritzgerald greets, slightly sly at the informality his courtiers audibly gasp at.

“it is a pleasure to be of your acquaintance as well.” Lucette replies, quick. the prince’s growing smile is hastily bitten back. behind him, a redhead leans forward from the secondary throne, clearly intrigued.

“i will not do you the disrespect of assuming your visit.” Prince Fritzgerald says, all prim formality, yet humble before a mere commoner. before Lucette. whispers rush around the chamber that both ignore. his words hide gravity Lucette picks up on immediately, in the way his smile folds inwards, in the way he tilts his head as he had when he spoke of secrets and trust.

“i am here as a candidate for the prince’s bride.” Lucette replies. posture calm and firm, hands neatly tucked in her front, spine ramrod straight. gripping her hands tightly, willing them not to tremble, not to shake as they had when she asked him about his secret, and nearly confessed her own.

Prince Fritzgerald nods, signals to a steward who hurries forward with a glass slipper on a cushion. needless to say, it fits perfectly. the cool glass hums with familiar magic that reluctantly parts as she slips out of the slipper once more.

“is there anything you wish to show the court?” he asks, once she puts her own shoe back on.

Lucette nods, but the prince’s expression immediately falls when he sees the glass pieces Lucette presents. there is no need for any further explanation. the court only rolls their eyes at the obvious trick many others have tried to pull, but the silence is heavy between the pair.

“is there anything else?” Prince Fritzgerald asks. the pain is clear in his grieved eyes, but his lips are thin in neutrality, unable to speak. his own uncanniness in the selection works against him now. the court would riot if he grants her favour when she still appears to be another fraud.

the court would have her dead in a week.

his fists clench on his lap in helplessness. Lucette sees the sudden rigid motion, and swallows. holds out a hand.

“yes.”

Prince Fritzgerald stares at her hand cluelessly. then his eyes widen, and his stare jerks back to her face, cheeks rosy and mouth slightly agape.

“i have heard that your maiden offered you an irreplicable dance on that night. if you will forgive my impertinence, i would like to offer you the same waltz.”

the buzz of the chamber bursts audibly with gasps and remarks. the redhead leans ever forward, and the raven who stands beside them takes a cautionary step forward. a redfaced courtier slams a staff on the ground. “how dare -!”

“i accept.”

silence cloaks the chamber like a heavy rug. 

the prince’s affirmation kills the noise. “someone, please call the musicians.”

at the further confirmation, the horror turns into curiousity, into excitement, at the wide smile on their prince’s face despite the insubordination, at their unmoved prince suddenly shaken by a mysterious maid brought in by the royal doctor.

Prince Fritzgerald stands, removing his cloak and the sword on his hip that a steward is quick to take. while Chevalier takes Lucette’s cloak and bundle of glass, musicians rush in. a familiar spot of blond catches Lucette’s eye, and she blinks twice at the coincidence.

the excitement is palpable in the air as the prince makes his way down the short steps, as he stands before the unknown lady who has stirred his interest when thousands others who have tried harder and dressed better could not.

he takes her hand carefully, gently, looking at her as if this might be the start of another dream he will wake up from anytime now, alone with tears running down his face. Lucette’s heart skips a beat at the endearment that is plain across his face, and skips another few more when his other hand circles her waist, when his smile tilts at her instinctive response of her hand on his shoulder.

she doesn't know what her face looks like right now, but the way he looks at her tells her it must be identical, if not more taut, contrary as her nature is.

the musicians start slow, a common waltz number. Prince Fritzgerald leads, and Lucette easily follows.

but their steps are stumbling, clumsy, both stabbed by the pressure and stares of all the onlookers. his hold is soft, but too much so. her hands are trembling too much for it to be simple performance nerves. there is uncertainty in their feelings that reflects in their dance, that their audience picks up on swiftly.

Lucette’s gaze unwittingly drifts away from her partner, and catches sight of the mumbling disappointment of their audience, the disapproving stares, the hidden laughs and jeers and she misses a step, another, her breath tripping too, her vision clouding, the music like the crackles of a flame and she cannot -

an out of place, sudden offkey hum grates sharply against her eardrums. Lucette’s eyes snap back to the prince, whose brows are furrowed in concentration as he hums another note. Lucette blinks, and he smiles, arm tightening around her waist in comfort, in determination, bending his head in a silent question -

of trust.

and Lucette takes a deep breath, steadies her hands; leans into him, and nods a little back.

he hums again, longer and louder, but still offkey. continues humming, terribly untrained and out of tune, until a particular note strikes Lucette. 

she hums the next note, the next verse before he can, and his face splits into a delighted grin. the quartet of musicians exchange a glance, but continue playing, uncertain of what their prince is asking of them.

all but the violinist, who has turned red as a ripe tomato. 

Rod stares dumbfounded and red faced at the duo. Lucette catches his eye and the confusion splits into wavering determination. the prince spots his dilemma after Lucette does, and nods clearly in his direction, a command and a plea both.

the deliberation only lasts another moment longer. Rod motions to his fellow performers to stop, and for a moment the chamber is cast into silence once more. then he takes a deep breath, repositions the violin under his chin, and pulls his bow in a firm, striking solo.

as does the music brighten, Prince Fritzgerald’s steps follow suit. he tugs on Lucette’s hand, the only signal he offers before they are launched into the third step of their self made waltz. 

Lucette gasps, but narrows her eyes at his teasing grin, and falls into step perfectly. she is not one to back down from a challenge, to back down from the only man who has met her head on, to back down from her own promise made.

and she promised him an irreplicable waltz. Lucette looks back at him expectantly, and pulls into the lead. Prince Fritzgerald laughs, startled, and allows her; a perfect push and pull in their electrifying waltz, neither one leading nor following, simply falling in step with each other, falling in love.

they follow the circumference of the chamber, lost to everyone but each other. around, their audience watches spellbound at the dancing pair, the sudden switch in tempo and skill catching all off-guard. the dance is simple and complicated both, with the duo switching steps and positions seamlessly, as easy as a breath, as easy as another laugh shared.

Prince Fritzgerald’s face is flushed, edges of his eyes crinkled in an endless laugh, and Lucette feels her own cheeks aching, her pensive smile now wide and blooming, cheeks as dark as her prince’s own.

the song launches into a crescendo and Prince Fritzgerald tugs back into the lead, a sudden movement so smooth Lucette’s own stutter, but does not trip.

cannot, as she’s suddenly lifted into the air by her waist in a twirl, and all she can look at, all she can see, has seen throughout their dance, her weeks alone and agonising is his face, is his vibrant smile that lights up his face, the room, Lucette’s heart; all she can hear is his tumbling laughter, deep-bellied and loud and unbidden, awestruck, enchanted.

as the last triumphant note is struck, Lucette lands on the ground once more. both in their starting positions again, but this time, the prince’s hands are fastened on her waist, holding her close, his chest heaving with the dance, with the utter joy indescribable yet obvious in his wide smile, in his eyes that fasten only on her.

“i found you.” Prince Frizgerald says, breathless and laughing, eyes wet with relief and immense happiness that Lucette knows, believes now, is because of none other than her. “i finally found you.”

the court needs no other words, no other convincing. someone begins to clap, then others immediately follow, with cheers and more applause. it is clear, from their prince’s stoic nature of the past years now shattered, from the way their prince has laughed untethered, a sound once thought to be lost to the kingdom, from the way he has not stopped looking at this maiden once since her entrance, spellbound, enchanted, clearly, undoubtedly -.

in love.

and her, the mysterious maiden, a commoner who came for her prince and nothing else, whose eyes have only ever looked at him, never straying once to the gold that decorates the room, nor the title symbolised with his sword. who did not raise her voice, who has only shown temperament and grace, who answered every one of his questions with clairty, every one of his words as an equal, with truth and bravery. the maiden whose impassive front broke only for him, who only laughed when he did; a maiden, who clearly, definitely, is utterly, truly, undoubtedly too -

in love.

“this is terribly ill-mannered of me, my lady, to ask so late - and you may berate me as you wish, later - but may i know your name?” the prince asks, breathless.

Lucette laughs, a soft sound that only pulls his smile wider. “how daring, to ask for a lady’s name before you offer your own.”

he laughs again, at her blatant flirt, cheeks beautifully rosy. “of course, my lady. i forget myself. my name is Fritzgerald. but please, call me Fritz.”

“Fritz.” Lucette says, and Prin - _Fritz’s_ ears darken too in shyness and terrible fondness in the way she so carefully enunciates every syllable, every letter. “My name is Lucette Britton.”

“Lucette.” Fritz says, with wonder, with knowing, with love. “ _Lucette.”_

“yes.” Lucette laughs again, for once her name sounding beautiful, graceful. 

“will you marry me?”

Lucette flushes red entirely. her reply is instantaneous, without hesitation or second thought, only longing and love.

“yes.”

Fritz immediately closes the gap between them, and Lucette reciprocates the moment they part, much to the delight of their audience, who bursts into a second chorus of cheers.

and with the knowledge that it is not love alone that conquers all, but love, kindness and trust in oneself and their partner combined that does, they both lived - 

happily ever after.


End file.
